With Celtic League and Heineken Cup clashes against Ulster just around the corner for the Welsh regions, Gareth Morgan is in the advance guard before swarms of rugby fans invade Belfast

THE REVELATION comes, as most of the best ones do, at about two in the morning. I am standing at the bar in a Belfast pub institution, The Botanic Inn, drinking a Tricolor - a bizarre mixture of spirits arranged to resemble the Irish flag in a glass which seems to include Bailey's, creme de cassis and meths - when I notice the Welsh three feathers emblem out of the corner of one bloodshot eye.

Lack of sleep has nothing to do with this mirage - there in the corner stand Barry John, Gareth Edwards and a host of other rugby stars, all in full kit and looking ready for action.

I blink and look again. They are only eight inches tall.

I see then that the corner of "The Bot" is jam-packed with Groggs, the famous little rugby statuettes - many Welsh but with a few Scots and Irish faces thrown in for good measure. Then I see the photos behind, and the match programmes and club shirts.

Next I realise that I have been talking about the best way to dumper tackle an English centre with the stranger next to me at the bar for a good half-hour now.

Finally the full revelation hits me just as sharply as the last of the Tricolor hitting my stomach wall. Dublin gets the internationals, but Belfast really is a proper rugby town after all.

Rewind 10 hours and I am riding the Enterprise at top speed, while outside a new and, some might say, alien landscape zooms past. It is every childlike Star Trek fan's dream, if only this Enterprise were a real spaceship.

Banish thoughts of Captain Kirk and Klingons though - this Enterprise is a train. And unlike the sci-fi series, the designers have thoughtfully installed a bar so travellers can sup Guinness as they watch the border between the Republic and Northern Ireland slip past at speed.

Dublin enjoys a reputation as a rugby weekend mecca, and will be thicker than a pint of porter with Welsh faces come the Six Nations in February.

But Belfast is about to burst onto the scene as another great city for weekends away, especially with the Celtic League encouraging more clashes between Welsh regions and the province of Ulster.

At under two hours' journey from stag party central, Dublin, it seems easy to hop on the Enterprise and start exploring the northern city. In the name of journalistic research, I am the bold advance guard for the loyal Welshmen who will come here to shout for the Celtic Warriors and Llanelli Scarlets in January.

But on this occasion the train does not quite travel at warp speed. It stops for an hour at Portadown - not stutters or stalls, but really stops. Men clamber out and fiddle with the undercarriage in the rain until finally we are back on our way, but it ruins the illusion of efficient speed I had so far been daydreaming about.

Later on that night, someone says that getting delayed at Portadown is not surprising; he says the last 400 years are delayed at Portadown.

The area is near the Drumcree flashpoint which occasionally sees Loyalist and Republicans in conflict over marching rights, a conflict dating back to William of Orange's Protestant victory in 1690. A long, long time before today's protagonists were born.

But anyone believing that Belfast is still some sort of battle zone, needs a reality check and a refreshing visit to see the place for themselves. Over the past 10 or 20 years the city has altered and redeveloped - and the mood has changed too. Not that Belfast people ever had a reputation for being anything but friendly towards visitors. It was trying to be friendly towards each other that sometimes caused problems.

The train eventually arrives very late, and passengers spill out eager to get home. The town's major taxi firm is called ValueCabs - they are everywhere as I leave the train station. Unfortunately, so are commuters - hundreds, suited and booted Ulstermen sweeping into a filthy wet Belfast. The city looks dark and brooding, but it has character, there's no doubt. I eventually find my cab and jump in with my wet clothes and cases.

The driver is called John and we quickly establish that yes, this is a Welsh accent and yes, I am a rugby fan. John is a big Ulster supporter and has got a ticket for tomorrow night's game against Borders, something I don't have at the moment.

"I'll buy you a drink if I see you at the ground tomorrow," he says, before dropping me at Madison's Hotel. He is not the last complete stranger to utter those words tonight.

Madison's may be a hotel, but is also part of the Belfast-based Botanic Inns chain. Their pubs dot the city and, I later find out, offer a warm welcome for the weary Welsh traveller.

Although they are publicans by trade, the company have come good here. The rooms are modern - a bit Ikea in places, but who doesn't love Ikea these days? The TV is a work of beauty too, one of those wide plasma thingies that looks so good I try and prise it off the wall, roll it up and put it in my suitcase. But it won't budge.

Because I'm late arriving there is no time to consider what else might be worth nicking, for downstairs the Botanic Inns commercial manager is waiting to meet me. He wants to show me what the place has to offer for the eager rugby fan. Steven is a genuinely nice guy and offers to buy me a drink. Well, what else would an eager rugby fan be doing at 7pm on tour?

We stroll into the bar which is spacious, with a decent choice of bottled beers, draught and all the posh drinks that Welsh rugby blokes are so often seen supping on match day, like Tia Maria. Well, they do when the beer runs out.

The bar also boasts the chance of proper coffee during the recovery session the next day, and is mere yards from the comfort of a weary supporter's hotel bed. But hey, no sleeping on tour and all that. There's exploring to do.

At the bar I meet Dylan Hughes, half Welsh on his dad's side and over here on business. He offers to buy me a drink and tells me that I shouldn't trust him because he is an up-and-coming rock star. My brain feels like it is going to explode at this metaphysical conundrum, so I nod politely and drink my Tiger beer.

Over supper Steven tells me about the rugby weekends that Botanic Inns are offering. They sound a bargain - #65 for two nights in the hotel and one hot meal chucked in, along with breakfast.

"Then we do bus trips, which are about #25 for a match ticket and a meal and a few beers," says Steven.

"We are trying to give real value and we know the rugby fans get on well. Getting everybody together makes for a cracking weekend."

But he is not happy for me to take his word that Belfast is a party city. After a quick bite we head out into the dark and rain, as he takes me to ex-newspaper offices The Northern Whig. But this is no time for extra-curricular journalism. The Whig is now a stylish bar, decorated with Soviet statues from Eastern Europe.

The printing presses are long gone and tonight a style awards show is being held. We end up coming through the wrong entrance with all the beautiful people, but somehow get away with it, and emerge to granite soldiers pointing Kalashnikovs at the city's glittering young things.

The show is about to start, but there is no time to stop and stare. More's the pity, as dozens of blondes and brunettes stalk the bar sipping Cosmopolitans daintily. Instead, it's onwards to a bar that looked the same since long before the Russian revolution - The Crown Liquor Saloon.

This too is a Belfast institution. One in three visitors apparently visits this dark, gas-lit Victorian temple to all things alcoholic. Whether they all get bought a Guinness and port on arrival is doubtful. But the night is kicking off well and I can easily imagine celebrating a famous victory in here. Or drowning my sorrows in defeat.

By now Jas Moony, the managing director of Botanic Inns, has joined us. The Crown is not part of this chain but a heap of varied pubs in Belfast are.

His pubs vary from log-fire boozers with live music to clean, angular-style bars.

"There are loads of different places to go out in the city - something to suit everyone from families to blokes to female fans," says Jas.

"Whatever people want in terms of nightlife when they come to Belfast, they will get it - well up until 1am, at least." I tell him his 1am is better than our 11pm.

With two hours' bonus drinking time on our side we head off again, to The Bot, where I meet the miniature rugby stars and a crowd of people I have only just met offer to buy me drinks, just because I am a visitor in their fine city. I think bed comes at some point, but could not swear to it.

A new day dawns and this is a chance to see the real Belfast in the light. A city with an imposing sense of place - so much has happened here to shape its people.

A black cab tour costs #25 for a private driver, who will hopefully be as well informed as Ken Harper, who can answer any question with wit thrown.

Ken shows me where the Titanic was built ("We built it but an English captain sunk it") and takes me to the infamous Falls and Shankill roads, separated by just a few yards, and the high and oddly- named Peace Wall.

Here the houses are daubed with murals, and hand-painted gunmen track your every move from the brickwork like sinister Mona Lisas. But when Ken stops for photos, nobody bats an eyelid. The murals are a popular tourist attraction now.

My local guide during the afternoon is Helen Mulholland, whose job is to take me to see what other attractions the city can offer the travelling rugby supporter.

This, inevitably, involves a lot more pubs. Helen shows me The Fly, a cool joint where some bloke is reminding us all which bar we're in by running around dressed as a six foot insect. She also shows me Ryan's Bar and Grill, a popular eaterie where refuelling - for those who remember to eat solid foods - would be a good idea on match day.

But Belfast is more than just pubs and within a small city centre there is plenty to do and see. The Linen Library and City Hall are almost next door to each other, and Ulster's rugby ground Ravenhill is thankfully near to town. Tonight John the taxi man will be going to watch his province annihilate Borders, but I never got round to finding that ticket.

So we turn our back on this city's fine sporting and cultural side and it's back to The Apartment. No, not my hotel bedroom for a well-earned rest, but a smart bar with massive glass walls overlooking the main Donegal Square. Another pub admittedly - but, hey, it's dark already. That's the great thing about the winter.

"Classic place isn't it?" asks Helen, as we squeeze through the bustle of an early evening crowd. I'm not sure if she's talking about the bar, or Belfast in general, but I have no intention of disagreeing.

I've bumped into another friendly stranger, who offers to buy me a drink.

I begin to wonder if some of Wales' wandering fans will ever leave if they come here over the course of the season.

But no need to worry about home just yet. Town fills up again for Friday night and the drink is already on the bar. It seems rude to say no.

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